


Dacryphiliac

by Medeafic



Category: Gossip Girl RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Crying, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:55:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Anton has this kink...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dacryphiliac

**Author's Note:**

> For this [prompt on the kink meme](http://community.livejournal.com/trek_rpf_kink/2887.html?thread=4515911#t4515911), and for [](http://garden-hoe21.livejournal.com/profile)[**garden_hoe21**](http://garden-hoe21.livejournal.com/) , because she is FREAKING AWESOME. Thank you as always to Brilliant Beta [](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/profile)[**emmessann**](http://emmessann.livejournal.com/).

Everyone has an opinion about Anton these days, and they’re good opinions more often than not. They still get surprised by his energy in interviews, his mannerisms, because he holds it in when he has to, for a performance. Watching them respond to that frenetic behavior has its own rewards, but nothing works for Anton like making them cry.

When he sees those liquid eyes, or the red tinge after they’ve watched one of his movies – that’s what it’s all about, all of it right there, his _raison d’être_ he sometimes thinks. It’s happened since he was a kid, when his mother cried over his performances, over how proud she was. He didn’t realize then that they were happy tears, and his first instinct was to comfort her. She would smile and laugh and cry at the same time and it was very confusing – was she sad? Happy?

But it occurred to him one day that, whichever it was, good or bad or mad – it was a reaction, a measurable, physical reaction. And Anton has always been about reactions from an audience. He likes attention and praise as much as the next person, probably more.

After he figured that out, and after he got old enough that his mother would let him have more of a say in which roles he took, he usually sought what he called the ‘killer’ roles. The ones that would twist hearts and provoke emotions. Laughter was good. But tears were better.

And now here he is at Sundance, smoking a cigarette while standing around the side of the building in the cold because he doesn’t really want people he knows to see him and chastise him. He’s getting over a terrible cold and if his mother could see him now she’d probably kill him. He’s in between interviews and in between screenings and just catching a moment to himself when he’s approached.

The guy is Anton’s age, he figures, or maybe a couple of years older, and he’s smiling broadly. Oh, right – it hits him. It’s Penn Badgley, that guy from that show Anton’s never had time to get into, and from that movie Zach made.

“You’re Anton, right? Anton Yelchin?” He holds out a hand, and Anton shakes it, looking him up and down. “Man, I gotta tell you, I saw your movie before and it totally killed me. I know I’m supposed to be supporting _Margin Call_ , and it’s really great, but _damn_ that’s a fine piece of celluloid you made there. You proud?”

“Thanks, yeah, of course we’re all proud, it was such a great opportunity, to be able to really explore like that, you know?” He chatters on, meaningless but all the right things, watching Penn’s face and wondering. “Killed you? Really?” he finishes.

“I cried like a baby, man, I don’t know, I broke up with my girlfriend a few months ago so I’ve been a bit, you know –” Anton tunes him out again, but watches with intense fascination as his eyes actually tear up again. Penn gives an embarrassed half-laugh and sniffs. “And so just watching that, it made me, you know…”

“Feel things?” Anton smiles, and Penn comes closer.

“Yeah. Feel things.” Penn steps right into Anton’s personal space, which is normally something he hates, but right now he’s okay with it. Right now it seems like close physical proximity could be a very good thing. “So what are you doing?”

“Watching you cry.” Anton reaches out and wipes through the thin wet streak on Penn’s face. Sucks his finger and watches as Penn grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing much, just a rumor I heard. You never know with rumors, do you, but you know what? I’m very good at crying. Don’t get much call for it in my day job, but I was always excellent at crying on cue, all my teachers –”

“Show me.”

Penn concentrates for a minute and then his eyes well up, spill over.

“What are you thinking about?”

“You. Your performance.”

Anton grabs him then and pushes him up against the wall and kisses him. Penn’s nose is cold and his tears are wet and it’s the best kiss Anton thinks he’s ever had in his young life, and he’s had a lot of them. For work and for real, he’s kissed a lot of people and made a lot of people cry and this is better than all of that combined because it _is_ combined.

Penn is moaning around Anton’s tongue in his mouth, until Anton pulls back and says, “Let’s get out of here.”

They find a tiny room filled with cleaning equipment and no locking door, but it doesn’t matter because their combined weight slammed against it will keep anyone else out. There’s nowhere else to lean in the room anyway – it’s all shelves and cupboards, sharp edges. But Penn is wearing a soft woolen sweater, warm and welcoming, and a beanie pulled down tightly over his ears. His mouth tastes like coffee and whiskey. The kiss is getting closer to a bite now, as they crash into each other again and again, but worse, he’s not crying anymore.

“What did you like best about my performance?” Anton asks quickly, nuzzling into his neck. “What made you cry?”

Penn takes a deep breath and when Anton hears it catch, his hips thrust forward in response. He’s so hard right now and he’s ready to go but it’s the tears he wants. He’s never had a chance to do it like this, to fuck right when the tears are still coming. It’s overwhelming him now, the need to see, so he presses his forehead against Penn’s and asks again.

“Tell me. What’s making you cry over it?”

“It was real. It hurt.” His eyes are filling up again and Anton stares into them, watches the tears gather and slide over. “You’re always like that, though.” He closes his eyes for a moment, as though he’s embarrassed it’s slipped out, and when he opens them again his eyelashes are damp and beautiful, sticking to each other in little starfishes.

“When else?”

“ _Alpha Dog_. You made me cry then too.” He gives a brief grin. “Asshole.”

“Crying’s good,” Anton says. “Crying means something real.”

“Well, sure, but what about this? This is something real.” He’s pushing his hard-on into Anton’s thigh, rocking a little.

“That’s different.” It’s never a challenge for Anton to get a guy stiff. Much more difficult to make them cry. He kisses up the tears. “Keep doing it. Keep crying.”

“Sick fucker,” Penn mutters, but the tears keep coming. So do the words, but Anton’s not really listening. Penn is a talker, but he cries beautifully, he was right about that. Anton is beyond caring now whether the tears are real or fake, but he remembers reading somewhere that tears taste differently according to emotions, and now seems as good a time as any to test the theory. He leans in to lick again. They taste the same. Same balance of salt on his tongue.

“Turn around,” he mutters, interrupting the stream of words, and Penn obligingly turns to face the door, helps Anton’s fingers at his waist, unbuttoning and unzipping and undressing. His cock is just as hard as Anton’s in his boxers and he grunts appreciatively at the first tug.

Penn reaches down to scrabble in his pocket, brings out a condom and a packet of lube, and holds it over his shoulder to Anton.

“You came prepared.”

“Hell, yes. Boy Scout. Fuck me.”

“No doubt about that, no doubt, but I wanna see you cry more first. Cry for me.”

He can only see one side of Penn’s face, but he’s giving a smirk that’s half a sneer, like he thinks he knows something. Anton pushes him up firmly against the door again so that his face is half-flattened against it. He’s not usually like this; usually Anton is slower and sweeter with his lovers, a little unsure maybe, taking his time to make sure everything feels good for both of them, but the tears, oh God, the tears.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back a little. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I’ll cry for you,” Penn says immediately. “I’ll cry, but I want it rough. Hard. Okay?” He blinks, and another tear slides out.

Anton licks at it without thinking. “Yeah, okay. Okay, let’s go.” Like he’s going to say no, let’s stop and go back to my hotel room and dim the lights and put on some mood music.

Penn’s crying is convincing. His nose gets red and he rubs at it surreptitiously with the back of his hand, gives an enormous sniff. Anton slips his fingers around between the door and Penn’s cheek and finds it slick with tears. He cushions Penn’s cheekbone and leans in to speak in his ear.

“I’ll fuck you hard, I promise, as long as you keep crying.”

Penn makes a gasping noise and shoves his jeans down, struggling with his underwear until Anton helps him unhook it from his cock and push them down. Anton has to take his hand away from the tears for a moment to open his own jeans, but jacking himself a few times, his hand wet with tears, is even better than he’s ever fantasized about. He hears a guttural noise from his own throat, and leans forward, hard up against Penn, pressing his face into Penn’s damp cheek.

“Fuck me,” Penn says, and his voice breaks so perfectly into a half-sob that Anton bucks forward, his dick thrusting against the cleft of Penn’s ass.

No more playing around. Anton gets the rubber open and on his cock as fast as he can and slaps lube on haphazardly; rubs a finger up against Penn’s asshole, pushes it in, inexorable as the tear running down the face in front of him.

“Do it now,” Penn says, not more than two minutes later. “I told you – rough. Stop trying to make it – _ow!_ ”

Anton huffs out half a laugh and stills himself, his cock half-buried inside. “See, normally I’d apologize but you were all ‘make it hurt’ and ‘do it rough’ and _now_ you’re complaining? I can’t –”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, just, _fuck_ , just give me a second. It’s been a while since I took it. I forgot.”

They wait, and Penn keeps crying and keeps talking and Anton keeps wanting to push, but he contents himself with rubbing his nose in tears. It doesn’t take long before Penn is nodding, murmuring _okay, do it, fuck me, come on_ , and Anton withdraws a little before thrusting back in, all the way. Penn starts to hiss and it turns into a sob; Anton stutters to a halt, his orgasm collecting too rapidly and it’s too soon, way too soon, so he stops again for a moment.

“You can pull my hair if you—”

“Just be quiet, just for a minute,” Anton says through his teeth, but the danger is receding. So he grabs a handful of Penn’s hair and pulls his head back, starts fucking him in earnest while he watches him cry.

It’s cold in the room, not as cold as outside, but still chilly, and Anton appreciates the tight heat around his cock, the way Penn’s tears are _warm_ , God, warm on his lips and cooler on his tongue.

Penn is talking, standard dirty stuff from pornos about fucking his ass harder and giving it to him and how his cock is so big, but Anton can ignore it well enough to concentrate on how it feels for him, mouth pressed up against a wet cheek and hammering his dick home below. After a while the talking trickles off, turns into grunts and moans, and Penn passively sags into the door so that Anton has to pull him up by the hips sharply, impaling him again and again.

He takes a second to rub at Penn’s dick, and it’s not the most perfectly-paced hand job he’s ever given, but effective – it’s only a few minutes before Penn shouts and spurts, his ass clenching so tightly around Anton’s cock that it’s hard to move.

But he relaxes again and Anton fucks into him hard, just a few seconds more, and it’s enough. He comes, and it’s so intense he thinks he’s going to collapse, mouthing at the tears that are still falling and clutching at Penn’s shoulders.

Anton gets his breath back, his mind wonderfully blank, and pulls out carefully. Penn turns around, staring at him and still panting.

“That,” he says, “was fucking hot.” He scrubs his hands over his face, wiping away the tears.

“Yeah,” Anton replies briefly. There’s no trash can in here. He considers stashing the rubber in one of the mop buckets, but that seems impolite and also disgusting, so he wraps it up in some paper towel and shoves it into his jeans pocket to dispose of later.

“You wanna come back to my room? We could go again.”

“I think I have some interviews lined up,” Anton says, “and I’m not feeling that great. Sorry.” His voice is husky enough to prove the lie true.

He thinks it over again later that night in bed, jerking himself so hard it actually hurts a little, remembering the tang of the tears and the way Penn’s whole face was wet after they finished.

He’s gotta do it again like that. Not with Penn – the whole talkative thing would get old, fast – but with someone else. He’ll find someone else to cry for him.


End file.
